>From the Proceed At Your Own Risk blog, which is really pretty good, both for reading and eye candy. This is a long personal extract from the writer about his life long dislike of cameras and mirrors and how this linked to his own problems with his homosexuality.
The writer had problems I have never had, like being abused as a child and getting married. But I do think I shared his dislike of mirrors and cameras while I was growing up and closeted, and I wonder if there are others who felt the same way? Of course, no one should make some dumb link about kids disliking mirrors and being gay since God knows there must be many straight kids who feel that way. But I think there are interesting links here about being uncomfortable with yourself, both emotionally and in the way you look, and that lack of confidence being too much to confront in a mirror or in pix. And just like the writer, coming out did change things for me. I don't think I had a moment quite like his in front of the mirror (it recalls that electrifying moment from the French film Wild Reeds where the boy who's gay stands alone in front of a mirror and repeats, 'je suis un pedé... je suis un pedé..." [I'm a fag, I'm a fag.. though even fag doesn't quite convey the crude power of pedé in French]) But I do have large mirrors at home now and don't duck away from cameras, even if I don't particularly seek to be photographed. I also wonder about the opposite - the kids who only really seem happy in front of the mirror. You seem them at the parties, if the dance floor has a large mirror. They are usually attractive (or clearly think they are) and so there's no shortage of guys wanting to dance with them. But they are only interested in dancing with themselves, eyes locked with their own reflection in the mirror... Vikram http://rjr10036.typepad.com/proceed_at_your_own_risk/ LEGACIES I shared Lilly's fear and discomfort with mirrors and cameras. I was also a work in progress and had my secrets. But most of all, the mirror reflected the pain in my eyes and the faces of my parents. I would mostly see my father, sometimes my mother and I would hate them and therefore myself. That face in the mirror was hateful and evil, it was theirs, but it was also mine. At the worst moments, I would think of Lilly and wonder if anyone looked in mirrors and felt good and saw happiness? Even before puberty, I was well aware that I was somehow different from other boys. I didn't quite relate to their world. I would play their games, but never with any enthusiasm and always with detachment. I was an observer not a participant, but I did not understand why and I had no one to ask. Within months of my first orgasm, at the age of 11, I came to more clearly understand that the difference and my sense of alienation stemmed from the fact that I desired a degree of physical contact with other boys that they did not share. In fact, my peers were beginning to touch themselves and talk about girls. I loved the touching themselves part, but not the girls part. I really don't remember when I came to realize that my difference needed to remain hidden, but I think that it had to do with the fact that I'd been sexually molested at a much earlier age. When I had gone to my mother for help she made it painfully clear to me that it was of no interest to her, it was not something to be discussed and, moreover, it was likely my fault and also my responsibility to resolve. I was around 7 or 8 years of age when that happened. She told me a story about how her zedeh (Yiddish for grandfather) had put out cigarettes on her 12 year old breasts until she would allow him to masturbate with his fingers between her thighs. She had learned to keep this to herself out of love and respect for the venerable old man. I should learn from that, she said. Strangely, while I found this story to be terribly frightening as a young boy, I could not comprehend why my great grandfather needed to place his fingers between my mother's thighs in order to masturbate. At one point I remember thinking that it might be another of those strange things from the Torah, like not eating shrimp, waving your hands mysteriously over candles and kissing those old scrolls in the synagogue. Some months after my first orgasm, I had a revelation. Boys moved in certain ways. I found these mannerisms to be quite attractive and arousing, but I sensed that I did not naturally manifest the same physical behavior. I studied myself in the mirror in an attempt to practice being a normal boy. I strutted in front of the mirror like the other boys. I even bounced a ball like the other boys but it would inevitably hit me in the face, not because I was gay but because it's very difficult to bounce a ball while you're looking a mirror. The point is that my ball bouncing technique seemed to me to be decidedly girl like. (Except for my best friend and neighbor, Judy Brown who tried to teach me how to play baseball but failed. Judy must be riding around America today on her Hog.) So, I panicked. If I played ball with the other boys, they would discover the truth. I became a loner and an observer, rarely a participant. Appreciating the dire need for secrecy, I had to repress my natural movements, the way I carried myself, the objects that caught my eye, the body language that revealed who I was and what I wanted and did not want. Mirrors became both my friend and my enemy. I needed them for practice, but they would also reveal the occasional failure, a gesture, a look that was not in my estimation "masculine." I so wanted to move and talk and be like Lilly, so I watched her closely, fearing that I would move or talk like her. And I would spend hours before my bathroom mirror practicing the walk, the hand gestures, the crotch grabbing, the facial expression, the posture, the tilt of the head, all that I would so carefully and scientifically observe in "real" boys. It's worth mentioning at this point, and I may not be alone in this, but as a closeted male homosexual child, the Pinocchio story took on something of Biblical level parable status in my life. Pinocchio's quest to be a real boy paralleled my own. Pinocchio's nose would betray his lie. Richard's penis was a similar enemy. I became something of a genius at avoiding locker rooms throughout junior and senior high for fear that my wooden nose would grow for all to see. While my bathroom mirror was my partner in crime, public mirrors, mirrors in rooms that contained other people, were a dreaded enemy. For some reason, I came to believe that the distraction of my own reflection would cause me to lose control, if only for a moment, and some gesture would hint at my dark and terrible truth. Cameras were the absolute enemy. Cameras were the Nazis of mirrors. Cameras had the power to capture the split second mannerism that would reveal all. I used to imagine someone, anyone, looking at a photograph of me and suddenly, light bulb goes on over head, aha! Look! How could we have missed this! Richard's a queer. A slightly limp wrist, the position of my head, the angle of a lip, the turn of a foot, a hip...something might give it all away. Everything needed to be carefully monitored and managed. I couldn't say no to every camera, but I said no 90 percent of the time. Privately, I would go through family photos and destroy those that seemed to me to be revealing. Some survived thanks to bloody stupid negatives that were beyond my reach, or photographs that my father would enter in competitions (this was a hobby of his and he was actually quite good at.) The most stressful and difficult part of my wedding was the damned wedding photographs. Even with my beard bride on my arm, the stress level of simultaneous hiding and posing was a nightmare. Everything else was perfect. (Well, I actually came close to fainting at the alter and had to be propped up by my uncle. Not kidding. He thought it was sweet and all about love.) After I was married, I actually relaxed a bit. My new marital status allowed me to be a little more physically liberal. Married men were allowed some leeway in mannerisms that were absolutely prohibited to single men. You could "camp" it up a bit with a wedding ring on your finger and a wife at your side. (I'll resist the endless Hollywood jokes.) But mirrors and cameras remained the enemy. And then, in 1989, I came out. To be clear, in 1989, I began that long coming out process that continues through today. Along the way, certain moments stand as powerful milestones in my memory. Among the most powerful of course was my ultimate confrontation with and conquest of the mirror. The night I came out to my wife, I discovered, much to my surprise, that I simply could not say "homosexual" or "gay" to her. The best I could do. was "sleep with men". Fortunately, for me, she understood that "sleep with men" meant I was a fag. Among other things, I thought a lot about this inability to use those words. And then I thought of the mirror. I realized that I needed to stand in front of the mirror, completely naked, look myself in the eye and loudly declare: "I am a homosexual." It proved to be impossible. I couldn't do it. I actually tried several times. But I couldn't look the new me straight in the eye. I quickly buried this issue and moved on, penis by penis. I'd successfully suppressed this particular problem for many months, but with the approach of the one year anniversary of my first sexual encounter with another man, something inside of me began to stir. I knew that I needed to face this emotional and psychological challenge with determination. It might have seemed silly to others, but to me, declaring my homosexuality out loud while looking myself in the eyes, standing naked before my own reflection became the most important thing imaginable. I knew that I could not grow as a man, as a person, until I accomplished this seemingly silly and simple mission. On the morning of August 5, 1990, I stood before my full length mirror, the weight of all of Hercules labors bearing down on my shoulders. I took a deep breath, relaxed my body, looked directly into my own eyes and almost shouted, "I am a homosexual. I am a homosexual." I began to cry. I looked again and through the tears I said it to myself over and over again: "I am a homosexual. I am a homosexual. I am a homosexual." Do words like joy, bliss, exultation suffice? I felt freer than ever before in my life. I felt whole, complete. But most importantly, and remarkably, for the first time in over 40 years, I did not feel ashamed. In fact, something astonishing happened. Looking upon myself, I became physically aroused. I was enjoying myself, naked, in front of the mirror. At first I was actually a bit embarrassed by this feeling and hesitated to pursue it. But my penis urged me on and I allowed myself to enjoy myself, fully, all over the mirror. I could hear Lilly laughing in heaven. I could hear mirrors shattering up and down the hallways of my past. I could hear cameras exploding. I had beaten the curse of the mirror for myself and for Lilly. I was feeling a bit narcissistic, something I had never before experienced and it felt so good and even right. And I looked in the mirror and I saw me for a change and I liked what I saw. Group Site: http://www.gaybombay.info ========================== This message was posted to the gay_bombay Yahoo! Group. Responses to messages (by clicking "Reply") will also be posted on the eGroup and sent to all members. 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